


filling up the empty

by queen_scheherazade



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM, Caning, Flogging, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Impact Play, Post-Episode: s04e08 Father + Son + Father + Matriarch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_scheherazade/pseuds/queen_scheherazade
Summary: Oversight is gone. And it's all Mac's fault. Burdened by guilt and grief, he shuts out his friends and locks himself away until it all becomes too much. Instead, he seeks out a more...alternative method of tackling his emotions.
Relationships: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)/Original Female Character(s), Angus MacGyver/Desiree "Desi" Nguyen, Angus MacGyver/Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016) if you squint, Angus MacGyver/Nikki Carpenter (MacGyver TV 2016) mentioned
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	filling up the empty

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings! So this is the first fic that I've published here on AO3. I actually haven’t published anything since my ff.net days in high school, so please be kind. I’m in the midst of a large-scale modern AU fic for another fandom (started during NaNoWriMo), but this idea crawled inside my brain and would not go away, so here we are. I have yet to watch the most recent episode, so this will likely be contradicted in a number of ways. I’ve been watching the reboot since 2016, but my knowledge is not encyclopedic, so please excuse anything that is drastically incorrect; feel free to point it out in the comments. Enjoy!
> 
> [Title comes from a _Dear Evan Hansen_ lyric because I am, at my core, musical theatre trash.]

“Again,” he growled, his jaw tense as the rest of his straining muscles.

He hardly flinched at the _crack_ that followed, the cuffs securing his wrists above his head holding firm. 

He could practically hear the smugness of triumph in the silky voice that _tsk_ ed near his ear. “Now, now, _Angus_.” The consonants of his name had never been uttered with such chill-inducing precision, though his mind was quickly redirected by the sharp sting of his head being wrenched back by the hair.

“Surely a worldly, accomplished, intelligent man such as yourself…” Every adjective felt like a slur, spit out with venom and contempt. “Would have learned some better manners. Did your parents never teach you to respect your superiors?”

A laugh was the only response his growl of frustration received. His hair was released with a slight shove, sending his head flopping downward with a jolt.

“I’ll give that big brain of yours some time to reconsider your options.” Footsteps trailed away from him, then stopped. “But don’t you worry; I will most certainly be watching…” The footsteps quieted, taking their owner across the room but not out of it, he could only assume.

Angus MacGyver was left fidgeting on his tiptoes, bare arms stretched above him, conjoined leather cuffs affixed to a metal hook that offered him no purchase. Behind the black of the blindfold, his eyes darted rapidly, his creative mind working, as it always did, to find a way to remedy his current situation. Try though he might, he could not find a way out of this. His snarky subconscious whispered that there was a clear and obvious way out if he would let go of some of his stubbornness. 

Lost in his thoughts, he did not register the return of his captor until firm fingers traced his jaw, bringing his face up to the light (though he could not see it for himself) by the chin. 

“Are you ready to ask nicely, Angus?” The same voice slithered into his ears, sending a thrill through him with what it promised. Pain, sure, but also release and _quiet_.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, his lips barely moving, his jaw still set obstinately.

“What was that?” the woman asked, a set of sharp nails raking down his bare chest, causing him to hiss in a combination of surprise and satisfaction.

“Yes, ma’am,” he projected, his straightforward tone harkening back to his years out in the desert. The constant state of tension and unresolved emotion felt back then was not so far removed from his current state of being.

She hummed her approval, fingers trailing back over the red marks that were surely already beginning to bloom across his pale skin. “I will have you remember that you have been coming to me, Angus. I can help you, but only if you will let me. Do you understand?” Her hand paused, resting lightly over his rapid heartbeat, awaiting his affirmative response. Having received another clear answer, she stepped back, allowing her hand to drop from his body.

The click of her high heels across the stark concrete floor was more pronounced as she circled him, stalking his suspended form. “So what is it that you want from me so badly, Angus?”

The blonde man drew in a slow steadying breath through his nostrils, his chin dropping down once more, if only for a moment. After a beat, he raised his head, squaring his shoulders the best that he could in his current state.

“I want you to...to hurt me. Send me out of my own head. Decide what happens to me… Leave me no choice.” As if he could see her expression from behind the blindfold, he quickly amended his request. “Please, ma’am. Hit me again. _Please_.”

He could sense her satisfaction as she returned to him, the heat of her body barely warming his skin as she stepped into his personal space. 

“Good boy.” He didn’t bother to repress his shiver this time. Her hand cradled his chin once more as she pulled the blindfold from his blue eyes, meeting his gaze steadily, her expression brooking no dishonesty. “Color?”

He clenched his fists but met her with clear eyes of his own. “Green.” The word came out as more of a breath than a declaration, but it seemed to meet her expectations.

In the space of the next breath, Angus found his left cheek stinging deliciously, a surprised gasp escaped from between his lips. The same hand that had delivered the offending blow returned to stroke his face with a softness that almost tickled.

“Good boy,” she repeated. “Let me take care of you. Come ride the wave. Let go.”

With that, she left him momentarily, clicking behind him to where he knew a table full of implements stood. They had gone through the lot during his first session, discussing each at length. Beth was a stickler for paperwork and protocols, he had quickly learned.

It was this knowledge that kept him still, rather than twisting in an attempt to see what she was doing or which instrument she was selecting for him. He trusted her to take care of him, to stop if he gave the word, though he doubted that moment would come. Not tonight.

He had been on edge, nearly to the point of breaking, ever since returning without...Oversight. He had left any scrap of visible emotion on the hillside near the flaming wreckage of Codex’s former headquarters. He had returned to the Phoenix and completed his after-action report, grim-faced and without a word. He had sensed that the team wanted to help him in any way that they could. Desi, in particular, seemed to long to reach out in comfort, but the two of them had never really functioned in that capacity.

It was their fiery history, in fact, fueled by adrenaline and close calls out in the field, that had initially sent him down the Google rabbit hole that had led him to Beth. The thrill of pleasure-pain that came from hurried trysts in less-than-ideal situations, sparring matches taken too far, and, not to mention, Desi’s familiarity around handcuffs and his own propensity for knot-tying.

But their explorations had never led to anything like this. His current situation seemed to more closely mimic a mission gone wrong than anything that occurred between him and his...girlfriend? Partner? Friend?

His thoughts were once again swiftly scattered by a sharp _crack_ in his vicinity. Both his head and eyes snapped up to sharp attention, staring intently at the bare wall before him.

“I need you focused, Boy.” Beth’s voice had taken on more of an edge to it this time.

 _She would certainly fit in in the situation room_ , Mac thought absentmindedly. 

This time the blow fell across his left shoulder, the sound softer than the previous warning shots.

“Angus! If you can’t stay with me, if we aren’t in this together, I’m well within my rights to safeword out,” Beth warned. “Is that what you want? Or do you want me to take care of you like you know I can?”

At her first words, he found himself shaking his head so fervently that he surprised himself. He was desperate, he realized. He needed this, needed _her_. Based on some of his more adventurous experiences and what he had read online, this might be able to help him in a way that late nights draining beers and avoiding his friends just couldn’t.

“No, ma’am. I’m here. Here with you. I’m ready- whatever you want. Please.” Gone was his usual articulate nature, and they had hardly even begun.

“When you reached out to me, you asked me to take you apart and put you back together again. Are you ready to tell me why?”

_My father is dead because of me. It’s all my fault._

All she received was a sharp shake of a blonde head and a muttered, “No, ma’am.”

She hummed, a sound of evaluation. “Alright then. Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?” She did not wait for his nod of acquiescence. 

The blows came faster now, more sound than sting at this point, falling across his upper back in alternating passes. _Rabbit fur flogger_ , he mused, visualizing the layout of the table from when he had arrived. _Probably blue, if Beth’s color palette hasn’t changed in the months since I last...visited._

The sharp sensation of nails down his back once again pulled him from his reverie. “Stop. Thinking. Boy.” Each word was punctuated by a hard strike with the soft flogger. It warmed the skin of his back more than anything, but it certainly helped him focus, listening to the rhythmic _swish_ of the tails moving through the air, making contact with his skin, and rebounding with a swing of the Domme’s arm.

After an indeterminable number of minutes settling into this pattern, Mac found himself arching _into_ the blows, rather than just receiving them, craving something more. Beth could clearly sense his impatience, despite her position behind him. He could have sworn a small chuckle escaped her as she paused in her ministrations, heels _click_ ing back in the direction of the tool table once more.

“Am I not giving you enough, Boy? Are you not satisfied with what I have to offer?”

“No, ma’am, I w-”

His words were cut off at the knees by the sharp sensation that landed on his right side. This flogger packed more of a punch, the sting of the leather tresses biting into his skin deliciously.

“I’ll take your response as one of satisfaction.” He could practically hear the smirk in her voice. “Color?”

He responded with an unseen smirk of his own. “Green, of course, ma’am.”

“Takes one hit and the Army boy thinks he’s running the show. We shall see about that, won’t we?”

With that ghost of a threat hanging in the air between them, the blows came more quickly, falling into a pattern that only the wielder could determine. It seemed almost as if the strokes of the flogger fell in tempo with a song that only she could hear.

For Mac’s part, his usual constant analysis became more difficult, his mind otherwise occupied with attempting to anticipate his partner’s next move. It was much like hopping into the sparring ring with Desi, though this time he was defenseless to the powerful woman against whom he had matched himself, decidedly so. His fingers flexed helplessly above him in their bindings, fruitlessly trying to relieve some of the tension that continued to build as the strikes fell ever faster.

Just as unexpectedly as they had begun, the blows suddenly stopped. The young man started slightly when a gentle hand skimmed down his bare chest which, he now noticed, was rising and falling rather quickly with his accelerated breathing. Nice, for a change, he noted, to be experiencing this sensation when not on the brink of a life or death disaster.

“Look at me, Boy,” the Domme beckoned. His pools of blue slid up from the floor to meet her own, focusing his scattered energy back onto her. She would take care of him, this he knew.

“Yes, ma’am?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the semblance of a smirk, a facade of control when he had absolutely none.

She returned the look with a smirk of her own, giving his cheek a half-hearted smack that was more for show than any real impact. “So cheeky.” Her expression darkened by several degrees, slipping back into her prescribed persona. “Think you can take more of what I have to offer, Boy?”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He nodded once, sharply, quickly tacking on a quiet, “Yes, ma’am” at her raised eyebrow of warning. At her look of approval, he added, “Please. And thank you.”

“Good boy,” she praised, ruffling his hair as she crossed behind him once more, barely pausing to select her next instrument. _Someone with a plan; a woman after my own heart._

The end of the thought whipped away from him with a groan as a myriad of stinging blows rained down across his skin. The pain seemed to light him up from the inside; he felt aflame after mere minutes under the wrath of Beth’s multi-rod cane.

He did not attempt to keep his sounds quiet. He had already been punished in the past for not being open and honest in that way. This Domme wanted to hear everything that her submissives were feeling. The growls and groans of pain and frustration slipped out from clenched teeth unrestrained. The sharp stinging sensation of the cane didn’t allow him to zone out as the previous implements had, keeping him present in each breath and moment. Each strike was like a shock to his system.

Until he realized that it had been several moments since the last touch of the cane to his skin. He allowed his eyelids and his head to droop slightly, lulling in this moment of quiet.

Mac felt the sensation of his body moving slowly through space until the soles of his bare feet returned incrementally to the solidity of the floor. His knees felt slightly weak, but he found he was still able to stand. As the chain above him slackened, he brought his bound hands down to rest in front of him, in line with the waistband of his soft broken-in jeans, the starkness of the leather cuffs standing in contrast to the light wash of the denim.

At the sound of clicking heels, he raised his gaze respectfully once more, meeting Beth’s scrutinizing eyes.

“You were up there for about half an hour, dear heart,” she said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. The slight pressure, paired with her powerful gaze, had him lowering carefully to his knees. She smiled in approval, circling behind him to rub the tightness out of his shoulders, working feeling back into the somewhat numb limbs, mindful of the reddened skin she’d left behind. “Have you had enough?”

He paused for a long moment, evaluating his own mental state. He felt as though time had somewhat slowed, but still felt anxious, as though he had been caught in his own skin, unable to free his racing mind.

He shook his head fervently. “No, ma’am.” His voice was soft, but his words were clear. She nodded once definitively before coming around to face him once more. She unclasped the mechanism that had connected his cuffs to the overhead chains, retracing her steps to the wall winch to raise them back toward the ceiling, out of the way.

She returned with a black rectangle of covered foam, tossing it down before him. “Kneel.”

He did as she beckoned, shuffling forward to rest his knees on the pad, protecting them from the harshness of the concrete floor. His forearms rested on his spread thighs, his cuffed hands still joined together before him. 

Beth hummed her approval low in her throat. “Color?”

“Green.”

She threaded the fingers of one hand through his hair, pulling his head back with a slow tension, bending down to whisper in his ear. “That’s a good boy.” The proximity of her lips to his exposed neck sent a thrill straight to his core. Beth did not include sexual acts, even kissing, in her style of play, but the sensation was enough to send his mind spiraling back to memories of late nights and tattooed skin in Thailand. Humid air on sticky skin, the closeness of tight proximity, the thrill of racing pulses and advancing bootsteps. 

He was brought swiftly back to the present by the _thud_ -y sensation of the suede flogger across his right shoulder, snapping his curved spine back to attention.

“Up,” came his next command, accompanied by a snap of lacquered fingers. Beth pointed to the spanking bench across the room. “I would have you crawl, but I’m impatient.”

Mac rose unsteadily to his bare feet, using his bound hands as an anchor to bring his feet back under him. He took several sluggish paces across the smooth flooring, coming to stand at the foot of the bench, his gaze straight ahead and his shoulders squared in as close to a military stance as he could manage in the moment.

He felt Beth behind him before he heard her. She was a relatively small woman, her height betraying nothing of the power she could wield with a simple word or flick of the wrist.

“Would you grant me more access?” He felt the handle of the flogger pressed against his back, grasped in her hand, the other reaching around to rest patiently at the button of his jeans.

He inhaled sharply at the unexpected tickling sensation at his navel, but nodded, bringing his bound hands further away from his body to give her room to maneuver. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent,” she said simply, her fingers making quick work of the button and the zip. Both of her hands returned to his back, shifting the fabric in such a way that she made no contact with anything too intimate, but still allowed the denim to slide down his legs and pool around his ankles. He stepped carefully out of the garment, left standing before the bench in only his restraints and a pair of black boxer briefs.

“Come here,” Beth instructed, guiding him to rest his front against the cool leather surface of the piece. His bound hands were fastened below him, dangling over the top portion of the bench, his shoulders rounded with the pull of the downward stretch. His bent knees rested on a lower section of the bench, leaving his back and the back of his thighs exposed to the cool studio air and, more importantly, to _her_.

A hand returned, more gently this time, to thread through the golden strands of his hair. “Color check?”

“Green,” came his frustrated growl of a response. He felt more keyed up than ever now, even in this subdued state, mind still working to calculate how to fix the whirring inside himself, how to fix _him_.

_Take me apart. Break me. End me. Ruin me. I am good for nothing else._

Beth took a deep breath, then got back to work, wielding her weapon of choice with precision and ease. The hits landed more squarely now that he was grounded, no longer swaying unevenly through space as he had been previously.

A guttural groan slipped from his lips as she settled into a steady rhythm, making quick use of his newly exposed areas, the grounding _thud_ of the flogger claiming his pale thighs and covered ass. 

As he focused on the steady _swish_ and _crack_ pattern that filled the space, he closed his eyes, willing his mind to calm, to slip away and offer him some relief from the maelstrom that had been raging inside him for weeks.

Instead, images rose unbeckoned, as they so often did when he tipsily lay in his bed at night, willing sleep to overtake him:

_Crack._

Stoney eyes framed by blonde strands, a gun pointed at him under a diner booth table.

_Crack._

Tattooed shoulders slumped at his retreat through another slamming door.

_Crack._

Worried glances of concern exchanged as he leaves work alone yet again.

_Crack._

A handful of dirt dropped from a child's hand, not quite understanding why only his father stood beside him.

_Crack._

Salt and pepper hair and close calls, missed opportunities and eyes full of regret.

_Crack._

A fractured detonator and a clock run out of time.

_Crack._

He could not breathe. All of a sudden, he felt the tears, hot and stinging, streaming down his flushed face. He gasped for air, trying to form the words, unable to get them out.

“Red.” Beth’s voice was solid and firm, warm in a way it usually wasn’t during a scene. She knelt beside him, making quick work of unfastening his hands, separating them from both the bench and each other. She stepped out of her heels quickly and efficiently, jogging across the floor to retrieve several blankets from a pile by the door.

She was beside him once more in seconds, gently guiding him to the blanketed ground, his convulsing form resting around her small lap. She placed another blanket over him, soft as a newborn’s swaddle, running a soothing hand through his suddenly damp hair.

She did not attempt to quiet his sobs or hurry him through this display of grief. She remained, a solid and reassuring presence, unmoving and open. She was not going anywhere and required nothing of him. 

He was safe. Safe to feel the aftermath of the emotional IED that had been detonated inside him after all these weeks. Months, in some cases. _Years._

He was the one who was supposed to fix things. To find a way out of impossible situations. To make sure everyone got out safely. 

“But I failed,” he managed to gasp out after so many minutes. The world around him had begun to reform more solidly: the hard ground pressing into his hip, the lingering sting across his shoulders, the moisture covering his face. “I couldn’t- He’s gone. I- I failed him. It’s all my f-” One last sob, from deep within his gut, rose up to cut him off, choking his words as they died in his throat.

Beth did not hush him, but her voice carried an air of authority that drew on her usual occupation. “I need you to sit up and drink some of this, dear heart.” A juice box with a bendy straw was pressed into his still unsteady hand. He brought it to his mouth wordlessly, his breathing still uneven.

“Angus,” she continued, her tone insistent and calming all at once. “You are only responsible for your own actions. Each of us makes choices that will guide our path in this life. Sure, unexpected circumstances will arise and feel inevitable, leave us feeling powerless.” She paused, taking in a deep sigh of her own. 

“But each of us gets to choose what to do in those circumstances. Whoever _he_ is-” She glanced down with a pointed look. “-he made his own decisions. These broad shoulders were made to carry the weight of your choices alone.” She squeezed one of his blanket-covered shoulders, a reassuring smile on her lips, the timbre of her voice rising with her attempt to lighten the heavy mood that had descended upon them.

His eyes glanced up to meet hers, matching her smile with a small one of his own. He pushed himself up to a seated position, his arms steady once again. He leaned over to press his forehead against her shoulder, eyes closed. “Thank you,” he said, his raspy voice barely rising above a whisper.

Beth’s hand came up to rest on the back of his head once more. “Of course. Always a pleasure to take you pretty boys apart.” He raised his head with a surprised laugh, smiling widening at the dramatically wicked smile spread across her lips. “And an honor to help put you back together again,” she added, giving him a gentle nudge under the chin. “Now finish that juice, Boy. No low blood sugars allowed in my dungeon.” 

She rose carefully to her feet, readjusting the blanket around him. She crossed out his line of vision for a moment, returning with a selection of candy bars, which she spread out before him like a magician beckoning a tourist to “pick a card, any card.” After a beat of contemplation, his fingers closed around a Snickers bar. _Jack’s favorite_. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She crouched down before him, palms rising to cup his face. Her thumbs passed under his eyes, wiping away the last remnants of his tears. “Any time, dear heart.” She ruffled his hair one last time before crossing back to the side of the room, setting about the process of cleaning and straightening up her implements.

She kept him talking as she moved around the space, periodically checking in visually to ensure his safe return to normalcy, while still giving him space to privately process his emotional catharsis.

He kept his responses general, talking about his volunteer work with the Scouts, about Bozer’s latest failed mask creation, about Riley’s near-total dominance at Skee-Ball. It was a relief to speak about such ordinary, unconfidential topics, especially after everything that the Phoenix had faced down over the last few months.

Eventually, their session time drew to an end and Beth escorted him to the door, both of them now redressed and presentable for public consumption. She left him with a polite kiss on the cheek and firm instructions to check in via text at a few points over the coming days. He bowed his head to kiss her hand more formally, unable to articulate the swell gratitude he was feeling.

As he walked out to the truck he had been renting since the incident, he felt the absence of a bit of the weight he had been carrying over the past few weeks. Hoisting himself into the front seat, he pulled the door shut and sat for several moments, mind still processing at a more sedate pace than his rapid-fire normal.

While this was not a cure for the grief, the guilt, the anxiety he had been facing since his father’s death, he felt cracked open in a vulnerable and positive way. This was a first step on a longer journey. One that, he now realized, he did not have to face alone.

Picking up his phone, he fired off a single group text before throwing the truck into _Drive_ and heading for home.

_Bonfire at 8?_

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, there it is. A fic that literally no one asked for, but I hope it gave you what you were hoping for if you’ve found your way this far.
> 
> Major shoutout to my own friend “Beth” and her Sir for their patience and guidance in response to my late-night research texts. 
> 
> On that note: Do your research, y’all! I myself am not an active participant in the BDSM community, so please do not take any of what you have read here to be best practice. I did my best to draw from reputable sources, but delve deeper before trying anything. Practice the principles of [RACK (risk-aware consensual kink)](https://lovingbdsm.kaylalords.com/2018/05/02/ssc-rack-prick/), talk with your partner(s), and be safe out there!


End file.
